Body in the Bookcase

“I wasn’t really thinking too clearly,” Faith admitted. “I don’t know if you’ve ever had anything stolen from you, but you can do some pretty crazy things trying to recover what you lost.” He looked at her across the desk. Something as crazy as murder? Minister’s wife, suburban lady with kids, catering business, big blue eyes—plus, she’d made the call; but generally speaking, murderers fit any profile. Girl next door, boy next door, head lying on the pillow next to you at night. They weren’t drooling maniacs with eyes too close together. Yet, he knew what she meant about getting ripped off. He’d had a rowboat stolen from his parents’ place up on Winnipesau-kee and he was a raving maniac trying to track it down, checking every inlet, every dock for weeks.

She was speaking to his thoughts. “Obsessive things, not something insane like killing someone. I never wanted to do that. I just wanted to catch him, make him pay for what he did.” She told him about Sarah Winslow.

This was a whole lot more complicated than somebody surprising a B and E, which was how he’d pegged it in the beginning. Stackpole comes along and finds these two. They ice him. Then phone the police?

He sighed again. “All right, I’ll call this guy Dunne. Since Stackpole is from Massachusetts, they’re going to be involved anyway.” He knew exactly who John Dunne was, yet he wasn’t about to tell Mrs. Fairchild that.

It took John Dunne less than an hour to get there. Scott and Faith were in the waiting room, eating cardboard sandwiches and drinking weak coffee; at least Scott was.

“I thought you were just going to check out some pawnshops!” Dunne exploded.

Faith was tired, definitely frightened—and cranky.

“This was not exactly the kind of thing anyone could have predicted. First our carving set is stolen and now it’s a murder weapon. Not my idea!”

“Hi, Phelan,” the detective said. He had told the New Hampshire police on the phone that the two could be ruled out as suspects, but he’d still wanted to question them. He had no doubt that Faith had inveigled Scott into all this, whatever this was.

“Come on, let’s find a room. You can tell me all about it; then they should let you go home.” With John Dunne’s arrival, the waiting room was suddenly packed with police. Local, state, men, women—they had all responded to the homicide and now they all wanted to see the detective lieutenant, who’d become famous in law-enforcement circles over the years. He was as tall as they’d heard, and his face was as homely—

scary until you got used to it. Whether to make up for it or just because it was his taste, he dressed impeccably and wore his curly salt-and-pepper hair a little longer than regulations might dictate. He’d grown up in the Bronx and had never lost the accent. It made Faith feel right at home. She was inordinately glad to see him.

It took until midnight to go over everything—and it seemed longer. Earlier, Faith had reached Tom, and Scott had gotten his wife, Tricia. Both spouses were incredulous and frantic with worry all at once.

One of the cops had driven Scott’s car to the station and Dunne ushered them out. “I know the New Hampshire state motto is Live Free or Die, but I wouldn’t take the first part seriously. Don’t plan any trips in the near future. I’ll be in touch.

And, Faith, stay in the kitchen.”

She was too exhausted to put up even a token protest. She planned to avoid the second part of the state motto, too. A man had been killed and his killer was on the loose.

The cop who had driven the Mustang had adjusted the seat and mirror. Scott’s vociferous com-plaints were the last thing she heard before falling into an uneasy sleep. The next thing she knew, he was shaking her on the shoulder. “Wake up, boss. You’re home.”

Her head was pounding and she felt hungover.

Faith reached for the clock and jumped out of bed. It was past ten.

“Tom!” she hurried down the hall and called again. “Tom, are you home?” Obviously, he’d let her sleep, but she couldn’t believe she hadn’t heard her spouse or her children as they got ready. She slipped on her robe and went down to the kitchen. There was a note in the middle of the table with some wilted dandelions next to it.

“FEL BEDER LUV BEN.” Miss Lora, the nursery school teacher, had started a writing program with the older kids, using the new craze in education—invented spelling. Pix had warned Faith that cracking Axis codes during World War II had been child’s play compared to figuring out what your son or daughter would be writing for the next ten years. Faith assumed the scribbles underneath in bright red crayon were Amy’s contribution. Tom’s was brief and to the point: “Call me as soon as you’re up! I love you! T.”

As usual, he’d been so relieved that she was all right, he hadn’t been angry. Not so far. Just very, very shaken. Arriving home late and finding his wife was in a New Hampshire police station under suspicion of murder had been unsettling, and only her entreaty that he stay put with the kids, that Dunne would straighten it all out, kept him from driving up there at once.

She called his office and he picked the phone up himself. Either Ms. Dawson was out or he was sitting by the phone waiting. Faith suspected the latter. It was lovely to be adored, and when she thought of women whose husbands never called, never talked to them much, never cared, she felt guilty. But Tom’s Valentine card had said it all: a drawing of the earth and a female next to it on the cover; inside: “My whole world revolves around you! Happy Valentine’s Day.” It made her think of Niki’s lightbulb joke about Stephanie. It also made her think her position in this marriage was quite a job to maintain.

“I told the kids you weren’t feeling well. That you were tired. Which was true. You were out like a light. How do you feel now?”

“Groggy, confused, hungry.”

“Why don’t I take you out for some breakfast?

We’ll go down to the Minuteman Café and you can have some corned beef hash and eggs.”

“You mean you can have some.” This was Tom’s favorite breakfast. The idea of going out and sitting in a familiar—safe—spot was appealing, though. “Give me fifteen minutes to shower and dress.”

“Okay, see you soon.”

Faith turned the spray on full force and stood under it, her eyes closed. When she’d gotten home, she’d noticed some spots of blood on the soles of her shoes and the toe of one. She put them in a plastic bag and started to carry them out to the trash, then reminded herself she hadn’t been definitively eliminated as a suspect and the police might regard throwing away bloody acces-sories with some suspicion. Instead, she took the package down into the basement and put it on the top shelf over the workbench. Cleaning and polishing the leather might erase the traces of the scene of the crime, but not the memory. Dunne had told her that whoever cut Stackpole’s throat had done so expertly, slicing through the trachea to the carotid artery. Tom, like most men, was ritualistic about keeping every knife in the house honed to a fare-thee-well. Arkansas stones, special oil, porcelain knife sharpeners—his cherished tools of the trade. The murderer had been lucky.

Or—Faith opened her eyes and reached for her shampoo—knew the weapon beforehand. The Henna Gold shampoo quickly produced a thick lather. Faith rinsed and rinsed again. She turned off the water reluctantly. She often did her best thinking in the shower, and she still didn’t have an answer to the question that had plagued her since she and Scott had stumbled upon last night’s grisly sight.

Who killed George Stackpole?

Chief MacIsaac was having lunch and looked askance when the Fairchilds’ breakfast food arrived. They’d joined him in his booth, a permanent indentation on the side where he habitually sat. Occasionally, an out-of-towner would try to claim it during the chief’s well-known meal hours. Leo, the owner and cook, would get out a battered hand-lettered reserved sign and plunk it ceremoniously on the table.

“Have you heard anything from the New Hampshire police or John Dunne this morning?” Faith asked.

“Shouldn’t I be asking the questions?” Charley said, spooning up a last mouthful of cream of tomato soup and turning to a heaping plate of macaroni and cheese. “For starters, what were you and Phelan doing up there?”

Faith felt weariness descend like an old piece of clothing you don’t want to wear anymore but is still good and cost too much to give away.

“Never mind. Enjoy your meal,” he said. “I know the answer. As soon as you heard Stackpole had a list of your missing things, you hotfooted it up there to try to get some back. You took Phelan because he’d know how to get in if it was closed.”

“We didn’t break in—and besides, he

wouldn’t,” Faith protested. Tom looked startled and put his loaded fork back down on his plate.

Before he could say anything, though, Charley continued.

“Good for him—but Stackpole had left the door open anyway.”

Obviously, Charley had read the full report.

Tom quickly cleaned his plate and signaled for more coffee. “We know who didn’t kill the man, so who do you think did?” he asked, happy to have his wife out of the running for one crime at least.

Bless you, Faith thought. Charley tended to readily share information with Tom that she would have had to spend hours coaxing out of him.

“The woman Stackpole lives with is missing.

Cleaned out their joint account at an ATM late last night, and the safe in the basement of his house in Framingham was wide open. Bought a one-way ticket to Montreal earlier in the week—turns out she’s Canadian. Late flight, last night, and it was used. The travel information was in the house, but obviously not the lady. We’ve alerted the RCMP and are looking for her as a prime suspect, to start with.”

“Gloria?” This didn’t make any sense at all to Faith. She’d just seen the couple working together, apparently companionable. Sure, he’d spoken rudely to her at the show at the Copley, but Gloria took it in stride. “George’s bark is worse than his bite”—that’s what she had said.

Why would Gloria kill George and why now?

And why at the Old Oaken Bucket?

Charley’s mug had also been refilled. “The owners of the Old Oaken Bucket, Jack and Sharon Fielding, have had various skirmishes with the law, mostly tax evasion. Jack even did some time.

They were at home watching TV. Not the best alibi, which is in their favor. An airtight one often means you need it. There’s not a whole lot to do in that part of New Hampshire, especially on a week night and especially this time of year—mud and blackflies—so if they weren’t watching the tube, I’d wonder.”

Faith got a question in. “Did Stackpole have the code or wasn’t the alarm set?”

“The alarm was set, the Fieldings claim. They also claim he didn’t have the code, but that I don’t believe. Several of the dealers there have had

‘robberies,’ and I’ll bet a lot of them have the code.”

“What about James Green? Have you found him?” Tom again.

“Not yet.” Charley sounded discouraged.

“I told the New Hampshire police about him and what happened at the auction,” Faith said.

“Maybe he killed George, because he didn’t want George to finger him for all these break-ins, especially Sarah Winslow’s. Except”—Faith was thinking out loud—“if I’m right, George was as involved as Green. Now if it had been Green who was murdered, then George would be the obvious suspect. He’d want to shut him up before the police found him.”

“I’ve got to get back to work, honey.” Tom had had enough and his wife’s speculations—a sign that she was back to normal—were starting to make him nervous. It was much easier to grapple with the Almighty—and even the vestry.

“I’ve got to get going, too.” Charley stood up.

Faith looked at her watch. The kids would have to be picked up soon. She might as well stay where she was and think things through a bit more.

“Abandon me, go ahead. See you later.” She waved good-bye and asked the waitress for a glass of orange juice. The café squeezed their own, and Faith couldn’t drink another cup of coffee, especially the Minuteman’s.

The Fieldings had no reason to kill George, nor did James Green. Gloria might have, and it was suspicious that she’d withdrawn all that money and made travel plans. Faith took out a pad and pen, making a note: “How much money in the account? Who is Gloria?”

She thought about calling Nan Howell to find out more about Gloria. Nan would probably know about George by now—the world of antiques dealers was very small—and she also might have caught it on the news. The news! The police had assured her that neither her name nor Scott’s would be released, but she’d better give her in-laws a much-abbreviated version just in case. She jotted down a reminder. Marian would be sure to pick up on the name—the Old Oaken Bucket was pretty distinctive, and Faith couldn’t remember whether she’d mentioned George Stackpole’s name to Marian, as well.

But who had killed him? Gloria couldn’t make very much selling her little trinkets. Why would she want to get rid of her means of support, unless she was due to come in to a whole lot of insurance money or George had a lot socked away, leaving Gloria sole beneficiary? But the moment the woman tried to claim it, she’d be arrested.

Maybe he was cheating on her. A woman scorned? But George Stackpole struck Faith as someone who was extremely lucky to find even one woman who would put up with his tempera-ment—and appearance. The possibility of another in thrall to his charms seemed slim.

Who else? Faith was pretty sure she knew—even with a cast of characters who offered so many alternatives. She wasn’t ruling out Rhoda Dawson in all this. It might be a coincidence that James Green was from Revere and that’s where Ms. Dawson’s post office box was—or it might not.

Nan with her clinking beads, Gloria in spandex, Rhoda in Joan Crawford shoulder pads. No, none of these women, nor Green, made as much sense as the man in the Savile Row suit. Julian Bullock. Father of the bride.

Ben was at a friend’s house and Amy was happily banging pots and pans while Faith brought Niki up-to-date later that afternoon at work.

“I can’t believe the things that happen to you. Does your mother know? Mine would have locked you in her attic by now.”

The one thing Faith had not shared with Niki was her suspicion of Julian. Not yet. She needed to think about it herself some more. She decided to change the subject.

“We only need Scott and Tricia as staff for the rehearsal dinner. The flowers will be ready in the morning and we can take everything out in the afternoon. Thank goodness Courtney wanted a

‘family feel’ to the evening—no menus. The calligrapher would have gone crazy.” It suddenly dawned on Faith that this was why Stephanie had fooled around with changing the rehearsal dinner so much. She couldn’t alter the reception menus, not after Courtney’s fancy calligrapher had hand-lettered them two months ago. The woman was in such demand that even Courtney Cabot Bullock had to bow to her schedule.

“The lobster bisque would have been my choice, or your yummy wild mushroom con-sommé, but other than that, it’s a perfect menu,” Niki commented.

It was perfect, Faith agreed. The guests would sip champagne and nibble their hors d’oeuvres on the terrace, weather permitting, or in Julian’s library if it didn’t. The formal dinner would begin with the cold avocado bisque, accompanied by caviar toasts, followed by a salad of field greens with warm rounds of Crottin de Chavignol chèvre, then Muscovy duck with onion confit, wild rice timbales, and steamed miniature vegetables in a beurre blanc. Stephanie had nixed fresh asparagus with hazelnut butter a few weeks ago after noticing how “gross my pee smelled” after consuming some for dinner one night. “I mean, I’m going to be married the next day. I don’t need any kind of nasty odors the night before!” Garlic was of course out from the beginning, and only when she tasted the sweet onion relish did she approve of that potential offender.

Faith could visualize the whole evening. A night bathed in candlelight—so kind to everyone—but then, these were people who didn’t need it. Money might not buy happiness, but it did buy straight teeth, beautiful skin, contact lenses, great haircuts, and whatever cosmetic surgery one’s stage of life called for—a nose job in adolescence, tummy tuck and eye tucks later on.

Her mind wandered back to Julian, as it had all afternoon. This was his world—and his livelihood. Protecting his assets and his reputation was a powerful motive.

By the time she’d finished the puff pastry for the seafood napoleons that were Saturday’s first course, Faith had worked it all out. And it went something like this: Contrary to his denial of more than a passing acquaintance with Stackpole, Julian is, in fact, still buying the best of George’s goods, stolen or not. Faith’s mentions of George’s name and recovery of items, plus her proximity to Julian’s life have made him nervous. He decides it’s time to sever his ties with the picker. But George doesn’t agree. He’s been doing very well in the partnership. He tries to reassure Julian that he can provide some phony receipts and make the police happy. But Julian still wants out.

George reminds him that it’s not going to be so easy to get rid of him. He knows Julian doesn’t want to jeopardize his standing—way on top of the pyramid. His connections to the rich and famous, to museums all over the world, his PBS

commentaries will all go down the drain once George reveals that Julian has been part of a burglary ring for many years—and maybe knowingly selling fakes, as well. George himself, being at the bottom, has nothing to lose. Except his life.

Faith pictured Julian at his gracious estate, contemplating his fate, contemplating the objects surrounding him, objects that, according to his daughter, he valued more than people. Perhaps not such a difficult choice. Get rid of George and Gloria and effectively erase that part of your life.

It made perfect sense and it was the only theory that did. Nan had described George as “volatile.” Julian would be well aware of this and know the man wouldn’t hesitate for an instant before spreading the word about the high-and-mighty Mr. Bullock.

“You have been standing in front of the refrigerator for about an hour,” Niki remarked, exaggerating. “Earth to Faith—what’s going on?”

“Trying to sort this all out.” Faith scooped Amy up into the air. They had to get Ben soon. The toddler laughed delightedly.

“That’s going to take more than staring at a Sub-Zero,” Niki said.

“I know,” Faith agreed ruefully. “Believe me, I know.” It was going to take a plan. A very good plan.

The police would never act on her conjectures.

John Dunne habitually regarded her theories as far-fetched at best, even if the theories later proved correct. Somehow she had to search Bullock’s house—Dunster Weald. There had to be some kind of paperwork tying Julian to George: receipts, canceled checks. A massive partner’s desk sat in the library—a remnant of the time when Courtney and Julian conversed other than primarily through lawyers, Stephanie said when showing Faith through the house. In one of the desk drawers—maybe a hidden one—there had to be something. All she needed was time to look.

Alone.

By Thursday morning, Faith was ready. Granted, the scheme depended on things falling into place neatly, but it was time something did. On Thursdays, nursery school parents had the option of an extended day, and Faith often took it. Ben thought it was a great treat to eat lunch at school and play games all afternoon. He didn’t even balk at the rest time. His adored Miss Lora, that sweet siren, sang them to sleep. Amy’s morning day-care provider could sometimes be persuaded to keep her for the afternoon, and today was one of those days. Faith might finish at Dunster Weald in time to pick her daughter up, but she didn’t want to stop what she was doing to speed home, perhaps just missing the clue she was seeking.

She felt better than she had in days. Things were falling into place, and last night when she turned the light off, she hadn’t even thought of George’s corpse, or anything else to do with the murder.

There were any number of excuses that she could think of to be out in Concord the day before the rehearsal dinner, but she wanted the run of the place. The first step was to call there. On the fourth ring, Julian’s plummy voice announced,

“So tiresome, I’m missing your call. Do leave word.” Faith didn’t.

Stephanie, happily, was home.

“Nothing’s wrong, I hope?” she said crisply as soon as she heard Faith’s voice. Forget “Hello, how are you?” Miss Manners was not on Miss Bullock’s bookshelf.

“Not yet, but I’m terribly concerned about the oven at your father’s house. I should have thought of it before.” Faith was prepared to de-base herself in any number of ways. “It must be cleaned before the dinner, and there won’t be time tomorrow.”

“I hope you’re not suggesting I do it!” Stephanie said in horror.

“No, of course not,” Faith reassured her. “I’ll do it myself, but it must be done or what’s been burned onto the oven walls will impart a distinct aroma to the duck, and I don’t even want to think what it will do to the chèvre for the salads.” Julian Bullock’s oven was filthy—and tiny.

Faith was sure it had not been used since the divorce several years ago. It would stink if lighted and probably set off the smoke alarms. She’d be bringing a portable convection oven, but Stephanie didn’t need to know that.

“I’ve called your father, but there’s no answer.”

“Daddy went to an auction in Maine. We’d better hope there isn’t one he wants to go to on Saturday. Otherwise, I’ll be walking down the aisle alone. He wouldn’t think twice about skipping the wedding if he thought somebody else was going to get a stupid piece of furniture away from him.”

“What can we do?” Faith asked plaintively.

“You’ll have to come in here and get the key—and the alarm code. Can’t you take that girl who works with you along to do the scrubbing?” Vowing never to reveal Cinderella’s stepsister’s suggestion to Niki, Faith replied, “She’s taking a course in Cambridge and isn’t free.”

“Whatever.” Stephanie was ready to hang up.

“You’d better come soon. I have to go over to Mummy’s. She picked up some more bathing suits for the honeymoon. In fact, why don’t you go straight there? Then you can see them, too, and you won’t hold me up.”

Faith had very little interest in Stephanie’s honeymoon garb. The blissful couple intended to cruise the coast of Turkey—“everybody does Greece”—on a seventy-foot yacht complete with crew of six to see to their every whim. But she didn’t care where she picked up the key—just so she got it.

“Fine, see you at your mother’s.”

Courtney Cabot Bullock had returned to her roots on Beacon Hill, presently living on Chestnut Street, a cobblestone’s throw away from her childhood home. The first meeting about the wedding had been at the town house and it took Faith no time to get there. The problem was parking. She finally circled around to the Boston Common garage, left the car, and walked rapidly down the brick sidewalks on Charles Street to Chestnut.

A servant showed Faith into Courtney’s office.

She was sitting at a small Victorian ladies’ desk placed squarely in the center of the bow window, some of the panes amethyst, that overlooked the street. Unlike Julian’s house, the room was not crowded with furniture, but each piece was perfect. The walls had been painted a deep apricot and the trim glossy white. Faith recognized a Childe Hassam over the small marble fireplace.

She was sure it wasn’t a reproduction.

“Stephanie’s upstairs trying a few things on,” Courtney said. “I’m grateful you thought of the oven before it was too late.” The criticism implied—You should have thought of this earlier—was scarcely veiled.

“I am, too. We would have worked something out tomorrow, but it would have rushed other things.”

They spent a few minutes talking about the flowers. Faith was anxious to be on her way, but Courtney was in a chatty mood.

“A daughter’s wedding. Every mother dreams of the day, plans for it. I may not have a chance to speak to you after it’s over.” No more jobs here, Faith thought. The door would be closing. “But you’ve done a superb job. Stephanie’s nuptials will be everything I’ve hoped and more. I’ve been telling all my friends, and you must be sure to mail me plenty of cards.” Maybe not. This was a pleasant surprise. “You’ve handled things so discreetly, too. I know my ex has been a bit of a bore about the money.” Any more scorn in her voice and there would have been spontaneous combustion.

What about Stephanie’s dreams? Faith thought fleetingly, but then mother and daughter were so in sync, one pronoun could serve for both.

“Thank you, I’m glad you’ve been pleased.” She decided to avoid any mention of Julian. “It’s going to be wonderful.”

“Well, of course it is!” Stephanie walked into the room wearing two wisps of shocking pink fabric that Faith knew for sure cost more than the average family of four’s food bill for a week. She pirouetted. “Like it?”

“Divine—and better than the other one, I think.

Navy blue is so neither here nor there.” This was all getting to be a bit much, and just as Faith was trying to think of a way to ask for the key and alarm code to a house worth millions, Stephanie walked over to her mother’s desk and picked up an envelope. She flipped her hair back over her shoulders.

“This opens the kitchen door and the alarm keypad is in the first closet.” Faith had seen it.

“Punch in the code, and when you leave, do the same thing, but don’t do it until you’re absolutely sure you’re leaving. I set it off all the time, and Daddy’s tired of paying the false-alarm fines to the police.”

“It won’t take long. I use an industrial-strength cleaner.”

“You know the trash is out in the barn, right?

There are some old rags, too, if you need more,” Courtney said, “but don’t touch anything that looks like a mover’s quilt. Julian hides his best pieces out there under the rattiest ones until he’s ready to sell to some poor unsuspecting soul. Waits for the value to go up.”

Or the piece to cool off, Faith thought as she walked back to the parking garage.

It took only thirty minutes to get out to Concord from Boston, since it wasn’t rush hour. Faith put on a Mary Chapin Carpenter tape and consciously willed herself to relax. Stephanie and Binky were both getting massages Saturday morning to ease any prematrimonial stress. Faith wouldn’t mind someone working on the knots in the back of her neck that had taken up permanent residence since she’d found Sarah Winslow’s body. Unlike that morning, today was gray and the sky threatened rain. She pulled into the curved drive to Dunster Weald. The Bullocks had never even considered an outdoor wedding, although Julian’s house was made for one. Depend on meteorology? Absurd. Besides, Binky’s family had the perfect spot, with a more dramatic view than horses and trees, according to Stephanie.

Nature girl, she was not, unless the nature included someone to bring her a strawberry daiquiri or wrap her in seaweed. Faith would have opted for Concord, though. The drive up to the house was lined with copper beeches, planted as a gift for future generations by someone who saw them only in his mind’s eye. The formal English garden, white wisteria cascading from a long trellis in the center, would have been perfect for the ceremony. But then, Faith thought as she parked the car and scooted into the house, clutch-ing her cleaning supplies, it might have rained.

Like now.

She found the alarm and punched the code in.

The high-pitched signal stopped. Quickly, she preheated the oven, turned it off, and coated it with the cleaner, leaving it to do its magic. She couldn’t not clean the oven now that she was here. Courtney might check up on the quality of the job. Not Stephanie. Too, too disgusting—

opening the door, looking in.

Faith stripped off her gloves, washed her hands, and set off down the hallway to the library at the far end of the house. Her footsteps were soundless on the series of Oriental runners that lay on the floor. Outside, the pelting rain rattled the windows. She turned on a switch by the library door and the room was flooded with soft light.

Forty minutes later, she was forced to admit defeat. She’d been through every ledger—Julian was doing extremely well, much better than his ex-wife thought—and had carefully gone through all the correspondence she could find.

One drawer held stacks of elegant writing paper, all engraved with the name Dunster Weald, the address, and a small crest. Julian’s old neighborhood in Southie didn’t run to logos of this sort—

brand names were the rule of thumb—and Faith wondered idly whose escutcheon Julian had pinched. Besides the stationery, there were Mont Blanc pens, ink bottles, even some lowly paper clips and a stapler, but not a word about George, to George, or from George. She’d pushed and pulled at the fixed portions of the desk, but if there was a secret drawer, it would remain so. Julian either did not use a computer or kept it else-where. She suspected the former. The desk hadn’t yielded any disks. There was a fax and answering machine behind a row of faux books on one of the shelves, however, a concession to this century.

Faith tapped at the other rows, but they were all the leather-bound volumes they appeared to be. Could Julian have another workplace? Yet, Stephanie had referred to the library as “Daddy’s office.” It was Courtney who termed it the library when they were discussing where to serve.

Daddy might keep records, especially records he wasn’t eager to share, in other places. Faith looked behind the prints and paintings for a wall safe—although she would have been hard put to crack it if she found one, possessing skills with neither tumblers nor dynamite.

She was soon forced to concede that if this room held any secrets, it wasn’t going to yield them to her. She turned off the lights and directed her attention to the rest of the downstairs rooms.

After a cursory glance in each, Faith ruled them out. They weren’t rooms Julian used; they were showrooms. He wouldn’t keep documents, particularly incriminating ones, in furniture that he was trying to sell, discriminating buyers pulling drawers open, lifting lids. She was happy to see a new table in place in the dining room. It was the same size as the one Julian had sold to the Averys, although not so stunning. She also paused a moment in appreciation at what she already thought of as “their sideboard.”

Moving upstairs, she carefully looked in each bedroom, every closet, even peering into the hampers in the baths. Some of the rooms were being used for storage, and it was hard to move about among the chests, tables, and chairs. She opened drawers, wardrobes, and cupboards, finding nothing more than creased tissue paper, empty hangers, and dust. None of the rooms contained file cabinets, not even old wooden ones.

It wasn’t hard to spot Julian’s room. The bed was hung with deep crimson silk damask draperies, neatly tied to each post with gold tassels.

A kilim carpet covered the uneven floorboards.

Dunster Weald might have started out life as a farmhouse, but it was a manor house now. Unlike the other rooms, this one had little furniture.

Beside the bed was a large round table covered with stacks of books, catalogs, a framed picture of Stephanie as a little girl, a lamp, and a phone.

A banjo wall clock eliminated the need for a Westclox. Julian must have an internal alarm, like Napoleon, waking himself up at the self-appointed hour each day, or night. An armoire, a comfortable-looking chaise, and two ladderback chairs, one by each window, completed the inventory.

Searching the pile next to the bed was impossible without toppling everything over, yet there didn’t seem to be any personal correspondence or a receipt book of any kind. Faith turned her attention to the armoire. It had been fitted out with drawers on one side, the other with a small television, VCR, and stereo. So Julian had a weakness for Leno or Letterman, besides Lowestoft.

Julian Bullock was obsessively neat about his personal effects. Socks were sorted by color in ordered rows. Piles of crisply ironed pajamas from Brooks Brothers, and boxers from the same source, filled two more drawers. Another held sweaters, folded so expertly that Julian could always get a job at the Gap if this antiques thing didn’t work out. The only scrap of paper Faith found was a price tag on a yet-unworn cardigan.

The drawer beneath the entertainment system held a few tapes— Chariots of Fire, multiple Mer-chant Ivorys, and one lone Mel Brooks— The Twelve Chairs. The closet held clothes. Period. No safe. Not even a shoe box. Julian’s footwear, in trees, was lined up on a shelf beneath a row of sports and suit jackets. A hatbox revealed—a hat.

Discouraged, she returned to the kitchen to finish cleaning the oven, first checking the pantry.

Julian didn’t have any canisters. Or much food of any kind, except packages of Pepperidge Farm cookies, tea, and a shelf stacked with canned soups. The few drawers and cupboards, as well as the Hoosier kitchen, were a bust also.

As she scrubbed at the grime, trying not to in-hale the noxious fumes, she tried to think what to do next. She’d been so sure she could find some sort of evidence that would link the two men, which she’d present to John Dunne, leaving the police to do the rest. Everything had been falling into place, and now it was all falling apart. She’d identified James Green and his prints had matched the ones in both the Fairchild and Winslow houses. Then he disappeared. He could be out of the country, too, by now, like Gloria.

Gloria Farnum. Why would she go to Canada if she wasn’t guilty? Was it possible that she was the person who entered the antiques mart, flashed the lights to pinpoint the quarry, then lunged with deadly accuracy? Gloria didn’t seem to possess that much energy, or acumen; yet, appearances were so often misleading. Look at Julian.

Faith was back to him. It felt right and she had learned to trust her snap judgments most of all.

The oven sparkled and Faith stuffed the paper towels, sponges, rubber gloves, and empty oven cleaner can into a trash bag she’d brought along for the purpose. It was white, not green. She was avoiding those particular Hefty bags for the moment. Body bags were green, too.

The rain had stopped and there were puddles in the back of the house on the flagstone walk.

Fragrant deep pink and white peonies lined the walk, the blossoms bowed low by the storm.

She’d reset the alarm and locked the door behind her. She’d leave the trash bag in the barn and that way she’d know where to leave the trash from tomorrow night, as well. There was a small shed attached to the large post-and-beam barn and it occurred to Faith that Julian might have another office out there—or store his more sensitive records in the hayloft or one of the horse stalls.

Why hadn’t she thought of this before? The barn was a much better hiding place than the house.

Her heart beat a little faster and she quickened her steps. There was still a chance that she’d be able to prove her hunch.

Stuffing the bag in one of the trash cans just inside the door, Faith switched on the light. A ladder reached to the loft, which was filled with hay.

For the picturesque horses, she presumed. An open door led into the shed. It housed a complete workshop, much sawdust, and piles of wood. Julian the handyman, the restorer, the faker? Back in the main part of the barn, the stalls were filled with strange creatures—the quilt-covered articles described by Courtney. Faith picked up the edge of the first one. It proved to be two layers of mover’s quilts and indeed very ratty. She pulled them up and a lovely tilt-top table with a piecrust edge came to light. Soon she’d exposed all sorts of pieces—a bedroom set of painted cottage furniture, a Shaker sewing cabinet, a carved pine blanket chest, and an enormous maple secretary.

The dim light and clouds of dust from the hay added to the sensation that she had stepped into another world, Pandora’s world, where the lifting of a lid, or the opening of a drawer, might release all manner of ills. She found herself moving slowly, carefully.

There were several more stalls. In the one nearest the workshop, a number of items, most the same size, stood—queer shapes under wraps. She started at the rear, crouching low, looking underneath each cover. It was a set of lyre-backed dining room chairs. But the front item was long and low. She tugged gingerly at the quilt tucked over and around it. A corner was revealed. She fell back on her heels and pulled furiously at the rest of the covering, throwing it to one side. It was a drawer, a sideboard drawer.

Her sideboard drawer.

She didn’t need any further documentation. Julian Bullock was guilty. Guilty of receiving stolen goods—arranging for goods to be stolen no doubt—and guilty of murder. She had him. She had him at last!

“Might one inquire as to the nature of your business here?” Julian’s menacing voice had shed every vestige of charm.

Ten

“Everyone, including the police, knows exactly where I am,” Faith lied brazenly.

“How nice for you,” Julian commented sarcastically, then stooped down to look at the drawer.

“Where did this come from?”

It was too much. All the pent-up fury and frustration that had been mounting for three weeks—since Faith walked into Sarah Winslow’s book-lined room—erupted.

“You know damn well where it came from! My house! It’s over, Julian! You may have been able to shut up George—and probably Gloria—but you’re not going to stop me!” She dashed out the door, ignoring the startled look on his face, and reached her car—just as he did. He grabbed her arm—hard.

“Now just wait a minute. What the hell are you talking about? Are you insane?”

He was good, very good, although there was more Southie than Sussex in his accent now.

Faith started screaming, “Let me go, you bas-tard!” She tried to twist out of his strong grip, beating at him with her fist, her heavy purse lying useless on the ground, where it had fallen when he’d spun her around.

“How can I make you believe me!” he cried.

“I’m not a murderer!”

“And Sarah, Sarah Winslow!” Faith didn’t pause in her tirade or struggle to break free. “You killed her, too! Not in cold blood, but it amounted to the same thing. Your goons scared her to death!”

“I don’t know anyone named Sarah Winslow—and I don’t have any ‘goons.’ ”

“But you admit you knew George Stackpole.

Knew him very well!”

At this, Julian looked incredibly weary, but he did not relax his hold on Faith.

“I need a drink and so do you. We’re going to go inside, have one, maybe two, and talk. If you still want to call the police after that, you may be my guest.”

Murderers didn’t behave this way, offering hospitality and a chat. Faith looked Julian in the eye. Could she have been wrong? He had seemed genuinely amazed at finding the drawer in the barn. If he was going to bluff his way out, he’d have thought of something better to say—or do, like burning it immediately. She might be making a mistake she’d regret for the rest of her life—a long one, she hoped—yet the desire to hear what he had to reveal was too strong. It was one more mover’s quilt to lift—a colossal one.

“Okay. Let’s go inside, but don’t forget, people know where I am.”

An hour later, Faith stood up. They had been sitting in the library. “I have to get my kids.” Julian nodded. He was behind his desk, leaning back in his chair, still nursing the stiff scotch he’d poured himself after downing a first quickly.

“I really don’t know why I should trust you,” Faith said, pausing at the door to the hall.

“You don’t have any choice,” Julian replied, lifting his glass.

The luck of the Bullocks, or Cabot Bullocks, Courtney would have insisted, held. Friday was as beautiful as a day in June, which it was. The guests were invited for seven and the evening air at Dunster Weald was balmy, filled with the scent of wisteria. Faith had hung Japanese lanterns in the trees, and as twilight fell, their glow deepened in the shadows. She’d covered the table on the terrace with a white cloth, skirting the damask with drapery sheers gathered like a bride’s bouf-fant gown. They’d pass the hot hors d’oeuvres, setting the cold ones and a raw bar on the table.

The only flowers were masses of white roses in some of Julian’s silver wine coolers and garlands of baby’s breath looped about the skirting.

“A champagne crowd for sure,” Scott reported, returning for another tray of flutes filled with Dom Pérignon. “Her old man is knocking back the stuff like it’s water. I guess he’s trying to forget how much this shindig is costing him.”

While they were setting up earlier in the afternoon, Faith had taken Scott aside for a quiet moment. They’d talked on the phone since Tuesday night, but hadn’t seen each other, and she needed to chase away the ghosts, mainly one ghost, before she could throw herself into the work ahead.

Thinking about Tuesday night did not exactly put her in a party mood—and she was keyed up to start with anyway after talking with Julian the day before. Scott seemed to have put it all behind him and mostly expressed relief that the police were not interested in him as a suspect. Dressed in a white shirt, slim black pants, and black tuxedo tie—all of which suited him perfectly—Scott was ready for the night’s work. He loved doing parties like this, he’d often told Faith. They were a lot of laughs—and great leftovers. Tonight, he’d finally meet Stephanie, after a year of hearing Faith’s and Niki’s stories about the spoiled young woman.

Wednesday morning, Faith had called another young woman—Tricia Phelan—prepared for her justifiable anger. Borrowing one’s husband for questionable deeds and placing him at the scene of a murder could put a strain on any friendship.

But Tricia was cool. Like Tom, she was so relieved that her spouse was all right, it hadn’t occurred to her to be angry—at anyone. Or at least not yet.

Still, Faith felt guilty, hence the call. “Next time, ask me and leave Scott out of it” was Tricia’s only caveat. “I never even got a detention in high school.”

Tricia came in with an empty tray. “Nobody ate lunch today. These were gone before I could even get to everyone.” The tray had held small crisp zucchini fritters spread with sour cream and salsa (see recipe on page 339). Faith had another ready, these with sour cream, smoked salmon, and a twist of fresh coriander. She handed it to Tricia and got a tray of phyllo triangles filled with ri-cotta and prosciutto for Scott. Niki was basting the duck. The timbales of wild rice only needed warming and the salads were done. They were using Julian’s now spotless oven to bake the chèvre, but if they put them in now, they’d end up with puddles of goat cheese on incinerated baguette rounds. Faith wandered into the dining room for another last check on the table. Courtney had come out early in the morning to arrange the cloth, letting the gray silk fall to the floor in soft folds. Faith had placed three low floral arrangements and countless votive candles down the center of the table, so conversation would not be impeded. It was so disconcerting to crane one’s neck to the side in order to speak to the person across the table hidden behind an elaborate bunch of flowers. She’d massed parrot tulips, pale apricot and celadon green; peach-colored ranunculus; pale Ambience roses; white anemones; and tiny white hydrangea in shiny brass containers—from Pier 1. The bowls shone like the gold embroidered stars in the cloth. No strong fragrances to detract from the food, only beauty for the eye. Each napkin held one perfect white spray of sweet peas. It was a wedding, after all. As per Courtney’s suggestion, Faith had spread vases of more parrot tulips in a wide palette of colors throughout the rest of the ground floor of the house.

Returning to the kitchen, Faith announced to Niki, “We’ll serve in fifteen minutes.”

“Isn’t that a little early?” Niki asked.

“No, Stephanie wants her beauty sleep, and my instructions were to have dinner on the table no later than eight-thirty.” New Yorkers would just be starting to think about eating at this time. For Faith, New England continued to be a strange and mysterious land.

As she piped thin concentric circles of crème fraîche on the surface of the avocado bisque, she willed herself not to think about yesterday’s conversation with Julian, willed herself not to think about the sideboard drawer in the barn—or a multitude of other images. She had indeed opened up Pandora’s box. She drew a sharp knife through the circles of cream, creating a web. Creating a web. That’s exactly what she was doing, and please, God, let it work.

“Stephanie wants to know if everything is ready.” Binky Wentworth’s deep voice startled Faith and one of the webs now looked like the work of a spider on acid. She’d have to prepare another serving.

“Yes, give me five minutes to set these on the table. I know she wanted to announce dinner herself.”

He nodded and went back outside. Faith pulled herself together, shuddering. She absolutely would not think about anything else except the rehearsal dinner until it was over. Over.

Let it be over.

She placed a nasturtium blossom in the middle of each bowl of soup. Niki reached for the tray and Faith jumped. “Everything’s going perfectly.

Don’t worry. I’ve never seen you this nervous. Believe me, the Bullocks are not worth it!” Niki said.

Dinner was announced, and as soon as the guests moved into the dining room, Faith started to clear away the hors d’oeuvres with Niki. There was no way to see into the dining room from the kitchen, but as they cleaned, they could glimpse the wedding party through the windows.

“They never got zits in high school, those kind of girls,” Niki muttered. “It’s in the genes. Like long legs, a good backhand, and enough brains to hide them most of the time.”

“They do look beautiful, though,” Faith said.

“The Bridesmaids, isn’t that the title of a novel?” Tonight, they weren’t in the honey-colored slip dresses they’d wear tomorrow. They were in their own deceptively simple linen sheaths, pearls encircling their graceful necks, diamond studs sparkling on their earlobes. No double or triple piercing, no nose or lip rings. No body mutilation of any kind. Some spark of rebellion would have been welcome. Orange hair, a Jean Paul Gaultier outfit. Maybe there was a tiny rose tattoo under one of those Agnès B.s.

Dinner parties were like launching ships. You smashed the bottle across the bow and the well-constructed craft slipped down the ramp and off to sea, afloat on good food, excellent wines, and witty conversation. Faith had seen to two out of three, and from the look of it, the guests were supplying the third. At least they were laughing.

“She probably doesn’t want to put on an ounce before tomorrow or her dress won’t fit. I would have pegged her as the ‘finger down the throat’

type, but I may be wrong,” Scott commented as he entered the kitchen with Stephanie’s almost untouched main course.

“Too icky,” Niki said wryly. “She’s worried about her dress. Faith’s seen it, and an extra mil-limeter to the hips will throw the whole thing off.

Ten bucks says she eats dessert, though. She’s big on sweets. Daddy owes us a lot of money for all the cookies she’s filched over the last year.” Later, when Stephanie’s salad plate came back empty, Scott took the bet. “She’ll be full now.” Faith listened to her crew’s banter and felt completely isolated. The evening was taking on dreamlike qualities and the hours were passing slowly. Dessert would be served in the dining room, then coffee, small pastries, chocolates, and liqueurs in the library. It was warm enough to go outside, but mosquitoes, already ferocious, had ruled out this romantic notion.

Niki had prepared the dessert and it was a triumph—tiny wild strawberries, fraises de bois, layered with praline butter cream and yellow génoise in a wafer-thin dark chocolate tulip on a bed of caramelized spun sugar. Each dessert was capped by a chocolate medallion on which Niki had piped the bride’s and groom’s initials and the date.

Stephanie practically licked her plate clean.

Scott presented it to Niki with a bow and handed her a ten-dollar bill.

By midnight, the last Jaguars and Jeep Chero-kees had driven off and only the family remained.

“Marvelous party,” Courtney enthused in her flat upper-class drawl—the same voice reserved for “Nice day.” She stood in the kitchen doorway.

“Thank you—and tomorrow will be its equal,” Faith promised.

“I should certainly hope so.” Stephanie had come up behind her mother. “Binky and I are absolutely exhausted. We’re leaving.”

No “You must be tired, too,” “Good-bye,” or—heavens above—“Thank you” to the help. Stephanie left to spend her last night as Miss Bullock in the arms of Morpheus—and Binky, too, if she didn’t develop a headache between Concord and Cambridge.

“Good night, darling. You looked wonderful.” Mummy pecked Steffie on the cheek and sent her on her way, leaving soon herself with a faint wave in the direction of the catering staff.

Scott brought the last tray of the coffee things.

“This is it. The van’s loaded. After we finish washing these up, we’re all set to head back to the kitchen.”

Faith protested. “It’s getting late. Go now, and take Niki with you. Her car is there. It won’t take me long to do these.” Julian’s fragile Royal Crown Derby had to be washed by hand, as did the silver and glassware.

“Are you sure?” Niki asked. She’d been up since six, going from preparations at work to her class and back.

“Absolutely. You young things need more sleep than us overthirtys,” Faith assured her. “Tricia, you can follow the van in your car. I’ll probably be home before you, since you still have to unload everything.”

“Overthirtys? Since when have you taken to graybearding, boss? What’s going on?” Niki’s brow creased in concern. Faith almost never mentioned her age, except extremely obliquely.

“Nothing. This is one wedding I’m eager to put behind us, that’s all. I feel as if we’ve been living and breathing Stephanie Bullock’s big day for the last ten years.”

“It does feel that way,” Niki said, relieved. “All right, we’ll go.”

Faith heard the van pull away, then Tricia’s car.

Julian walked into the kitchen. “I thought they’d never leave.”

“Me neither,” Faith said. “The dishes can wait.” Back in the library, Julian poured Faith a snifter of brandy and motioned toward the leather couch.

Then he picked up the phone, dialed, and said, “I know what you’ve been up to and I’m not going to keep my mouth shut anymore.” He hung up immediately.

“Now we wait,” Faith said, sipping the brandy, feeling it hit her stomach like a fireball.

“Now we wait,” Julian said. “But it shouldn’t be long. That was the car phone.”

Five minutes went by, then ten. Everything they’d had to say to each other had already been said and they sat in silence together. Faith tried some more of her brandy and it went down more easily. She had the odd sensation of being at a wake. In a way, it was.

A car in the drive, then the front door opened and slammed shut. Hurried footsteps down the hall.

Courtney was in the doorway.

“What are you trying to pull, Julian? And what are you doing here!” She was furious and took a step into the room.

Faith rose from the couch and walked to the drinks tray. “Why don’t you sit down? We have a few things to discuss with you.”

When they’d heard the car in the drive, Julian had pushed the button on a cassette recorder disguised as a morocco leather–bound copy of War and Peace. Courtney looked confused. “Is it about tomorrow? I thought . . .” She sat down and accepted a drink.

“No, it’s not about tomorrow.” Julian moved behind his desk, sat down also, and nudged Tol-stoy closer to his ex-wife. “Sadly, if I said I was sorry to do this to you, I’d be lying, and there’s been quite enough of that. In a nutshell, ‘Mummy’ won’t be attending Steffie’s wedding.”

“Are you insane!” shrieked Courtney. “If this is your idea of a joke, it’s in extremely bad taste.”

“So is blackmail and framing me for a murder.

Not to mention the heinous act itself. Then there’s theft and a string of assorted charges. The blackmail, I could live with—as you well know. You’ve been doing it for years, but murder, old thing. A bit much, even for you.”

“You started it all!” Courtney flung the words back at him. She refilled her glass. “You were the one who found George, and he was damn useful to you in the early days. You wouldn’t be where you are now without him—or me and my family’s connections.”

“Alas, I’ll never know, will I?” Julian seemed genuinely regretful, and Faith wondered how he was going to bring this drawing room drama to a close.

“The whole thing is rather funny.” Courtney began to laugh a bit hysterically. “I knew you’d bought things from George you shouldn’t and used it to my advantage; then stupid Stackpole turned around and did the same thing to me when I bought from him.”

“You were buying from him?” Faith asked.

This was what they had suspected, but she wanted to get it on the record.

“He had a marvelous eye. Julian had turned pious and wasn’t buying from him, so I figured, Why shouldn’t I? My clients deserve the best, no matter the source. George got greedy, though. Or stupid. Blackmailing moi, can you imagine?” Faith could. Easily.

Faith persisted. “It wasn’t just that you were buying from him, though, was it? The two of you had a good thing going. How much did you pay James Green and his buddies to break into the houses? And who taught them the ins and outs of collecting antiques?”

“My, aren’t we the clever one,” Courtney purred, and crossed her shapely legs. “George’s flunkies were getting sloppy. Some old lady was in one of the houses they thought was empty, and she died. Terribly inconvenient.”

Faith shoved her hands down hard on either side of the couch cushion to keep herself from leaping up and tearing Courtney’s face off. Sarah Winslow’s death—an inconvenience. She willed herself to stay calm and keep asking questions.

The hubris of the woman was beyond belief.

“Clever, yet not clever enough.” Courtney continued her litany of self-aggrandizement. “You thought it was Julian. I really didn’t have to put your worthless sideboard drawer in the barn. He was your villain, clearly. But I knew you would need something substantial to show to the police—voilà, the drawer.” She took a deep drink and chortled. “That story about cleaning the oven. No decent caterer would ever consider using that antique! I’d planned for you to find the drawer tonight, telling you where to put the trash, but you made it all much more convenient.

I knew you wouldn’t miss an opportunity to poke around in the barn, Miss Snoopy Nose.” Faith filed away this wildly unflattering remark for future consideration. At the moment, there was a more important task to complete. They had to get as much incriminating evidence on the tape as possible. She gritted her teeth and asked another question. Miss Snoopy Nose, so be it.

“So, George definitely knew too much about your activities. You decided to get rid of him and cast the blame on Julian.”

“It worked perfectly. You were becoming a problem, too. George was all for doing you, but I explained we couldn’t until after the wedding. It would have been extremely difficult to find a good caterer at this late date.”

Faith felt faint and thanked heaven for her cooking skills.

“We thought we would just scare you instead.

George was really looking forward to getting rid of you, though. I’m afraid I had to deny him that pleasure. We arranged to meet at the Fieldings’

place in New Hampshire and fake a break-in.

That way, there would be no question of giving any of your things back. I can tell you George took particular offense at your activities in that direction. Possession is nine-tenths of the law, he kept raving.”

Faith stopped herself from spitting out, Not if you’ve stolen the goods!

Courtney was completely at ease. Clearly neither her ex-husband nor her caterer struck her as posing much threat. Her total aplomb was making Faith nervous. Surely, they had enough evidence on the tape for the police now—the crucial pieces of the puzzle they lacked when they’d concocted this plan yesterday were all in place. Julian had been adamant about deflecting all suspicion from himself. He wasn’t that much of a Boy Scout, he’d told Faith bluntly. This was the only way to catch a thief—and murderess.

“George was becoming such a liability—and a bore. In his cups most of the time. Such dreadful scenes at auctions and shows. Nobody wanted anything to do with him. His days as a picker have been over for a long time. Most of his inventory was coming from the burglaries, and frankly, when he told me he was hitting Aleford, I was surprised. Lincoln and Concord, all right. But what does anyone in Aleford have except their great-grandmother’s chipped Limoges?” Ludicrously, Faith felt called upon to defend the desirability of her adopted home as a target for larceny.

“And Nan Howell, how does she fit in?” Faith hurriedly asked instead—the last question they’d scripted.

“Nan? That frumpy dealer out in Byford? I have no idea, unless George was selling her my rejects, but then, he was selling them to everyone, and a lot of the dealers knew George’s, shall we say, suspect reputation.”

Courtney stood up and stretched. “Now, this has been an amusing little interval, but we all have a great deal to do tomorrow, and I’m going home. I suggest you do the same, Mrs. Fairchild. We wouldn’t want any blunders.”

Julian took a cell phone from the pocket of his dinner jacket. “The blunders have all been yours.

You’re not going home—now, or in the future.” He started to flip the phone open, then stopped, slowly putting it down on the desktop. Courtney had slipped a volume from the shelf directly behind her as she stretched, removing the gun con-cealed within—the gun now aimed at her ex-husband’s heart.

“Over there next to Julian, Mrs. Fairchild—and throw the phone on the couch. Now!” Courtney commanded.

“Terribly sorry. I’d forgotten about that one. I removed all the others,” Julian said, stricken.

With a passing thought to the usefulness of trompe l’oeil and that it was the first time she’d been in a house armed to the patina, Faith did as Courtney asked, watching the woman pick up the phone and slip it in her purse.

Their plan had failed. Dismally and disastrously.

“Out into the barn. Quickly.”

Faith stumbled on one of the flagstones in the path and Courtney gave her a sharp poke in the back with the barrel of the gun. The intensity of the thrust dispelled any lingering hopes Faith had that Courtney was going to leave them alive.

Julian was in front. Maybe he could tackle Courtney as they entered the barn, but with the gun now firmly pressed against her spine, Faith despaired of any action at all that could cause Courtney to pull the trigger. Julian might make it, but Faith wouldn’t. She wondered if this was crossing his mind, too.

And Faith was no match for Courtney on her own. The woman was in great shape, equal to Faith, the gun tipping the balance far, far in her favor.

They entered the barn, animals to the slaughter. Faith saw images of headless chickens running around, squealing pigs. She gagged—the brandy she’d imbibed leaving a taste of bile in her mouth now.

Courtney motioned to a pile of rope. “Tie her up—and I’ll be watching, so no granny knots. Be snappy about it.”

While Julian efficiently bound Faith, Courtney unleashed the full force of her anger at the caterer, appropriately garbed in her work clothes of black-and-white-checked chef’s trousers, white jacket, and black rosette at the neck, her own touch.

“What the Wentworths will think, I have no idea, but I’m sure they’ll see it through. Poor Stephanie. All her dreams, spoiled by you—and you!” Courtney directed her wrath now at Julian.

“Why am I surprised? Of course you would sabotage her wedding, just as you did every single thing I ever asked you to do for your only child.

School in Switzerland was out, too expensive, so she had to settle for Miss Porter’s. And all those horses. She didn’t want to ride one, but she did want to own one—what was so terrible about that? You could have arranged it!” Years of grievances and slights spewed forth.

When Julian was done, she told him imperiously, “Now sit in that chair, well away from Mrs.

Fairchild.” The woman must be ambidextrous, Faith realized. She was securing Julian to the chair with the practiced hand of one who tied drapery swags and chair coverings for a living, while keeping him under cover.

“You’ll never get away with this,” Julian commented dryly.

“Oh, but I will. You still have your—what used to be our—little Cessna at Hanscom Field. I know, because I keep checking in case I ever need it. I gave you my keys back, but not the duplicates.

They’re still on my ring. I will definitely get away with this. Very far away. Tonight.” She frowned peevishly. “So much traveling recently. Well, I’ll catch up on my sleep—somewhere, and wouldn’t you like to know?” It was like one of the mean girls on the playground, and Faith half-expected Courtney to finish the sentence with

“Nah-nah-nah-nah-na!”

“I don’t even have to make this look like an accident or a suicide pact, simply a plain, straight-forward process of elimination.” She laughed.

The woman was completely and totally mad.

“There’s no need to kill us. We won’t be able to get to the police until you’re gone. There’s a full tank of gas in the plane. I’ll even call ahead and tell them to get it ready for you.”

“But I want to kill you. You’ve totally destroyed my life! I can’t even go to my own precious daughter’s wedding tomorrow!”

“What!” came a howl from the doorway.

“You’re not coming to my wedding!”

It was Stephanie, with Binky at her heels. She stopped short in horror as the details of the scene became clear.

“Why can’t I have normal parents like everybody else—alcoholics, cokeheads, spouse swappers? Unless this is very kinky and very tacky sex—I mean, the help . . .”

Unlike his bride, Binky hadn’t paused. He’d calmly grabbed Courtney, efficiently wrenching the gun from her hand as Stephanie whined. He had his future mother-in-law pinned before his intended had finished her last sentence.

“Hand me some of that rope, darling, so I can tie your mother up. I think we’ll leave everyone as they are until the police arrive and we get this sorted out. Go in the house and call them, please.” His voice rang with unmistakable authority. It was Bancroft, not Binky.

“Are you out of your mind!” Stephanie cried.

“It’s my wedding day tomorrow, in case you’ve forgotten. We don’t want people to think anything’s wrong, and the police are bound to make a big deal out of this. I’m getting the shoes I left behind and we’re out of here—all of us!”

“It is a big deal, Stephanie,” Faith implored.

“Your mother has been involved in a ring of house burglaries, buying and selling stolen goods. She murdered her partner, George Stackpole, and maybe George’s girlfriend, Gloria, too.” Damn, she’d forgotten to get that on the tape.

“And she was indirectly responsible for the death of a dear friend of mine!” While she was reciting this litany of crimes, she was well aware that Stephanie was probably thinking of something else—like whether she’d be featured in the

“Vows” section of the New York Times.

But Bancroft’s eyebrows shot up. A few crooked branches on the family tree were par for the course, but this sounded like the last stages of Dutch elm disease.

“I don’t care,” Stephanie pouted. “I’m sure Mummy had a very good reason for everything she did. Now, Binky, untie everybody and let’s all leave. I’m going to have bags the size of steamer trunks under my eyes tomorrow!”

It was the first time Faith had ever heard Stephanie make a joke, but this was no joking matter.

“We’re talking about murder! Two, maybe three! And blackmail, and theft!” Faith exclaimed in desperation. She appealed to Bancroft, who had blanched but, thankfully, not moved the gun—which was squarely pointed at Courtney.

“There’s a cell phone in Courtney’s purse. Please call the state police and ask for Detective Lieutenant John Dunne. He knows all about the case.

Please!”

“Are you going to believe the ravings of this woman, Bancroft? If so, I’m very, very disappointed in you. You’re not the man I thought you were!”

Was it possible that Courtney still thought she could pull this off? Winging her way to South America within the hour? Faith didn’t want to say anything about the tape in the library.

Stephanie was liable to destroy it in the interest, self-interest, of maintaining face.

“Not the man I thought you were, either,” Julian said admiringly. “I think this could be the start of a long and beautiful friendship, although why you’re marrying my spoiled-rotten daughter eludes me.”

“Daddy!” Stephanie started to move toward her mother with the clear intent of releasing her.

“No, Steph, stay where you are.” Bancroft inched forward, picked up the purse, and got the phone out. He called the number Faith recited by heart and then dialed 911 for the Concord police to get some reinforcements right away.

While they waited, he addressed Julian’s question. “She’s beautiful, smarter than she appears, and, as for the rest, definitely educable. Good in bed, too, but you probably don’t want to hear that, sir.” He smiled.

“Au contraire. Hat’s off to you. Very important in a marriage. Never had it myself.”

Courtney didn’t bother to say a word, but the look she gave Julian was so poisonous, Faith was amazed the man didn’t fall to the ground frothing.

Within minutes, there were flashing blue lights, sirens, cops everywhere. Here we go again, Faith thought, so tired, she could barely give her name.

Soon after, John Dunne strode into the middle of the melee and, seeing Faith tied up, immediately ordered her released. “I thought you’d like me this way, out of commission,” she said as she tried to restore circulation to her arms and legs. Securing loads of furniture had made Julian extremely proficient at bondage. Dunne frowned. “Not when the bad guys do it, and I assume that’s what’s going on here. Not that keeping you out of commission hasn’t crossed my mind in the past, but no, I’m not happy. I have the feeling I will be, though. This all connects to the Stackpole murder, right?”

“Right. I have something for you to listen to.

Courtney Cabot Bullock’s confession of Stackpole’s murder—and a variety of other misdeeds.” The police were untying Courtney, and when she heard this, she lunged for Faith. “You whore!

You were taping me! Forget about ever getting a decent catering job in this town again. You’ll be lucky if they let you make the fries at McDon-ald’s!”

Faith wasn’t worried.

She led Dunne out of the barn back into the house. “And Julian Bullock?” he asked.

“He’s out of this. We worked out the trap together. He had nothing to do with the murders—I’m afraid Gloria is not in Canada—or anywhere else alive—but we didn’t get the details. I think Courtney wanted a backup suspect in case she couldn’t make the charge stick on Julian.” Dunne shook his head. “You were only supposed to go to a few pawnshops.”

“That’s what you said. I never did. How could I let Sarah’s death go by and not do everything possible to find out who killed her?” Dunne opened the back door for her. “Show me this tape and we’ll get Julian to hand it over, since I don’t happen to have a warrant on me; then let’s get you home. You’re going to have a lot to do tomorrow.”

“A wedding, primarily.” Faith grinned. “A very beautiful, very expensive, very unusual wedding.”

Promptly at noon the following day, Stephanie Cabot Bullock marched down the aisle at Trinity Church on the arm of her father. Her white satin gown fit to perfection, scooped low in the front and back, tight over the hips, the full skirt billow-ing out in shimmering folds. Her hair was pulled back in a demure knot, a few artful wisps escaping. Bancroft’s gift, a double string of luminous pearls, and a single white rose in her hair were her only ornamentation. No veil. She carried a small, tight bouquet of more roses—white, ivory, and cream. Julian and Bancroft wore morning coats. The bridesmaids in their honey-colored Caroline Bessette Kennedy slip dresses stood at either side with the ushers. The maid of honor was in a pale green version, an embodiment of the promise spring makes to summer with its first tender shoots and buds. Each young woman carried a spray of white lilacs.

The mother of the bride was wearing orange or olive green at a secure facility. Her absence was impossible to overlook, but it went unmentioned—at the ceremony and the reception. Everyone was much too well bred to do more than exchange a meaningful glance, a glance that promised future revelations entre nous.

Faith had gone to the church, leaving her expanded staff to cope with the preparations for the reception. She had to see the thing through. The frosty look Stephanie gave her as she glided past the pew was what Faith expected. The wink from Julian wasn’t. She sat down and listened to the familiar words, “Dearly beloved, we are gathered here in the sight of God . . .”

Dearly beloved, two of the most beautiful words in the English language.

Then it was over and the young couple, now joined as husband and wife, came joyfully down the aisle. Stephanie was truly radiant. There were no bags of any size under her clear blue eyes.

Maybe Binky was a safe harbor for someone who had been brought up with very little in the way of mooring lines. Faith hoped so and wished them both well. Then she raced across town to the Wentworth Building and worked feverishly for the rest of the afternoon on what was indeed a perfectly splendid wedding reception.

“I knew you wouldn’t want to cook tonight—and we’re dying of curiosity.” Faith arrived home, to find Patsy and Will Avery in her kitchen, heating up gumbo, dirty rice, collard greens, corn bread, and what looked like several dozen sweet potato and pecan pies. “Comfort food, soul food. My mother sends the sweet potato; Will’s, the pecan.

We always have a freezerful.”

“But I make the corn bread and it’s the best in the world,” Will boasted.

Tom folded Faith in his arms. The Averys had brought plenty of Dixie 45 beer, too, and Tom had started in on it.

“Everything went like clockwork, right? And now we don’t have to hear anything more about the Bullocks, at least not until they hire you for the christening. The Lord be praised!” Faith couldn’t agree more. “How are the kids?”

“Samantha’s got them upstairs in Ben’s room.

She actually claims she’s going to miss them so much next year that she wants to spend all the time she can with them. I wasn’t about to argue.

Charley’s going to try to drop by—and I asked the Millers to come over. There’s enough food here for half of Aleford.”

They were having a party. And she didn’t have to do a thing. Will put a glass of wine in her hand.

“I know you’re not a beer drinker, but we may make one of you yet.”

Suddenly, Faith realized she was happy. It was such a foreign emotion that at first she couldn’t believe the sense of well-being that had settled over her. Friends, family, food. The basic core of existence.

“What did I miss?” asked Pix, who was followed by her husband, Sam.

“Nothing—yet. I’m hoping Charley will be able to fill in the blanks—that is, unless you called John, too.”

Tom looked sheepish. “I did, and he’ll be here with his wife in a few minutes. Turns out he’s a gumbo fan.”

“And what about your sainted Ms. Dawson?

I’m surprised she’s not here.”

Tom pulled his wife into the other room.

“I was going to wait to tell you until tomorrow—so much is going on now—but since you’ve mentioned her—”

“Tell me what? Come on, sweetheart, no holding back!”

“And what about you?” Tom was suddenly righteous.

Faith backtracked rapidly. “I’m sorry. It all got very complicated. We can talk about it later. I want some gumbo.” She was ravenous. Even with all the food today, she hadn’t had much appetite, tasting only when it was necessary. “But first, come on, give—have you found out Rhoda’s guilty secret?”

“In a word, yes—and it’s not so guilty. She didn’t think it was appropriate to reveal, given the nature of her parish job.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a shocking pink flyer.

There, she was “Madame Rhoda, Psychic Reader”—picture and all. Except she wasn’t wearing shoulder pads. She was wearing veils, a lot of them wound around her head. Long gold earrings dangled from each lobe; beads and chains of small coins encircled her neck.

“A psychic!” This was the last thing Faith would have predicted, thereby demonstrating her total lack of aptitude for the calling.

“She said she’s been very concerned, ‘very agitated,’ and she came to me late yesterday afternoon. She told me that she was getting very strong vibrations of distrust from you and, to a lesser degree, from me. She thought it might have something to do with the burglaries, and of course she was right. But the main reason she told all was that she sensed a storm was brewing in your life and that you were going to be in great danger.”

Maybe there was more to this than Faith had imagined. Certainly it would have been nice to have this information before she was held at gun-point.

“I reassured her that whatever she did on her own time was her business, and that there is much about heaven and earth we don’t know. I also told her you were off catering a dinner, surrounded by lots of people, and couldn’t possibly be in any danger. That seemed to satisfy her, but she kept repeating she was getting strange vibrations. I called her this morning and told her if she got them again to let me know—pronto.”

“Tom!” Faith was stunned. “This doesn’t sound like you at all—and what would the parish think?”

“If God in his wisdom has sent me a secretary who can let me know when my wife is out on a limb, or whether we’re going to get a nor’easter, I’d be a fool not to take advantage of the gift.” He kissed Faith soundly and whispered in her ear, “But let’s keep Rhoda’s—and my—secret, all right?”

John Dunne’s wife was about five feet tall, but she was putting away gumbo with the best of them and had downed two beers already. Her husband was holding forth and she was listening with the expression of one who has been there, done that—often. “Could someone pass those delicious baked beans?” she asked softly. Pix had brought them. It was one of her few culinary skills.

“Courtney Bullock isn’t saying a word now.

She’s being arraigned on Monday and has about six lawyers, yet I doubt very much that she’s going to get out of this one. If we don’t get her for Stackpole’s murder, we will for Gloria Farnum’s.

Her body turned up in Julian Bullock’s pond.

Talk about the ex-wife from hell.” John laughed heartily and reached for some more corn bread.

“What we figure is, Courtney went to an ATM

machine with George Stackpole sometime to deposit money she owed him, learned his code, then stole his card. What we know for certain is that she flew to Montreal on the last flight late Tuesday night and back the next morning, using Gloria’s ticket and identification. They don’t look at identification that carefully at the gate for flights like this. She probably wore a hat or a scarf. Gloria got dumped in the pond on the way to New Hampshire. Our Courtney is nothing if not efficient.”

Faith thought of Courtney’s bulging wedding notebook with every detail outlined, checked, and double-checked. Excellent practice for murder.

“Courtney Cabot Bullock has been identified by the crew on both flights—and by two taxi drivers. The boys are going over her trunk. It shouldn’t be hard to gather evidence. She was actually very sloppy—or cocky.”

Faith remembered Courtney’s remark about traveling so much. In light of the fact that at the time Faith had been facing a long one-way trip herself, the words hadn’t registered until now.

Dunne continued: “I’m sure she never lowered herself to meet with the guys hired to break into the houses—five hundred dollars a pop—but George trained them well. It was a good little business, and a pattern not unknown to us.

“The safe at Stackpole’s had been cleaned out—again by Courtney, no doubt, to cast more suspicion on Gloria if we didn’t buy Julian. We got a search warrant for her town house and turned up a lot of silver and jewelry in Ziploc bags. Christmas could come early for some recent victims.”

There is hope for Great-Aunt Phoebe’s cameo ring yet, Faith thought optimistically. She also hoped the police would use a metal detector on George’s backyard.

Faith had described the plan she hatched with Julian and now Patsy commented, “In a way, it’s a good thing he left the auction in Maine early. It would have taken much longer to solve all this.

He may have scared the daylights out of you, but you got to eliminate him as a suspect and figure out it was Courtney and then set the trap. My kin do the same for game.”

“But why would she do all this? She had money, a beautiful home, an adored daughter, the position she wanted in society, and a tony job.

Why take the chance?” Pix asked.

Will answered, “People like Courtney Bullock are so filled with their own entitlement that it blinds them to common decency, common morality. The rules don’t apply to her. She’s a free agent in a universe of her own making. I’m sure she will never believe that anything she did was wrong.

Plus, she needed a great deal of money to maintain this lifestyle of hers.”

“Poor Stephanie,” Pix said. “Imagine having a mother like that!”

“I think she’s still mad at me for making Mummy miss the wedding, but she’ll forget about it once she’s snorkeling in the turquoise Turkish waters,” Faith said. She was starting on the pies and the first mouthful of sweet potato was the best she’d ever had. Patsy’s mother was in a class with New Orleans soulful Creole greats like Leah Chase and Tina Dunbar. She finished the pie and looked around the table at the faces in front of her. Once again, she felt dissociated, as if she were watching a film, but a very different one from the other scenes played out over the course of these heartbreaking weeks.

Faith had come to the end of a very long jour-ney. She would never feel completely safe in her house again, nor take any of her valued possessions for granted. She had lost a great deal, but she had answered the most important question. She knew who had killed Sarah Winslow and why.

It brought a measure of peace.

Eleven

Clouds floated across the moon. Houses darkened until only a few lighted windows hung suspended in the night. Most of Aleford was sleeping.

On Maple Street, Patsy Avery was washing the last of the corn bread pans. Will used a generous amount of dripping and the water beaded up on the grease. He was asleep and she would join him soon. She put the clean pan in the dish drainer and turned out the kitchen light. The refrigerator promptly started humming, but that was the only sound she could hear. She opened the back door and went into the yard, craning her neck far back to look up at the sky. The look of the moon with its wisps of trailing black garments made her shiver. Burglaries, violence, deception—murder.

Maybe Mama was right. Maybe not. Aleford wasn’t Stepford. It was no better or worse than any other place once you got to know it, poked beneath the surface.

The air was warm. It was June, and summer, her favorite season, had finally arrived. Each year she took good, deep breaths to store up for the cold, lean months—most of the months here.

So, girl, what was it? Will had said he’d move anywhere she wanted, anyplace that would make her happy. Give up this job for another. But no place was home.

That was it. No place was home. Not even home.

This time, it was Samantha who jerked Pix Miller abruptly from a sound sleep. She rushed into her daughter’s bedroom, to hear her mumble, “Not another lap, Coach.” She shook her and Samantha woke slowly.

“Bad dream, darling.” Pix smoothed her daughter’s long dark hair back from her face, fanning it against the pillow.

Samantha burrowed down in her bed. She always slept almost completely covered up, no matter what the temperature outside.

Pix stayed by her side until Samantha’s deep, regular breathing started again. Even then, Pix didn’t get up, continuing to sit on the edge of the bed, her hand on Samantha’s blanketed shoulder.

Soon she’d be gone. Having been through it with one child, Pix knew how irrevocable the break was. Children came back—too often and for too long, some parents complained. The Millers never did; never would.

“Another lap.” Sam and Pix had tried hard not to put too much pressure on their children, convincing themselves these choices were the kids’

choices, things they wanted to do. One more lap.

Tomorrow she’d talk to Sam, then Samantha. A year off before college might be a good idea. A year off because there had been and would be too many laps. She kissed her daughter on her sweet, smooth cheek and went sorrowfully back to bed.

Charley MacIsaac had approached his empty house with the usual feeling of disbelief. It seemed like only yesterday that his wife, Maddie, had been there to welcome him home, whatever the hour—a pot of tea, a meal, his favorite oat cakes in a tin on top of the refrigerator. In reality, it had been many years—and he sensed it would be many years more before he would join her.

She would have enjoyed tonight. Enjoyed hearing the tale—and, most of all, enjoyed the rightness of it all. “There is justice in this life and you’re making it, my Charley,” she’d have said to him.

He went to bed, not bothering to undress, his eyes wet.

At the First Parish parsonage, much to her surprise, Faith Sibley Fairchild was still awake. After the events of the last two days, she had been sure she would slip into oblivion the moment her head hit the pillow. Finally, she’d gotten up, checked the children, who were fine, and wandered downstairs. She wasn’t hungry, not after the feast the Averys provided.

She didn’t feel like reading, either. She made herself a cup of cocoa—this was what her father used to do for her when she couldn’t sleep as a child—and took it into the den, where the television was. She curled up in the one truly comfortable chair in the house and picked up the remote.

She didn’t want to buy anything, watch classic sitcoms, music videos, or old movies. She was about to switch the power off when Julian Bullock’s face filled the screen. She sat up straight and increased the volume, the cocoa forgotten.

“I’d say it was the work of an itinerant folk artist, but a talented one. Portraits of this quality are very rare. It’s not signed, yet . . .” She stared at the face, at once so familiar and so foreign. He was offering up various names and speculating as to the value of the painting, a portrait of a young woman. His voice was assured, although not condescending. The host of the show, a PBS rerun, was clearly enjoying his guest. Faith muted the sound and sat watching the picture until the test pattern appeared. She hadn’t turned on any lights, and the dim illumination from the screen peopled the room with odd shapes.

“You weren’t a murderer, but you did get away,” she whispered out loud to the uncomprehending silence.

Author’s Note

The best of times, the worst of times—that’s when we turn to food.

Whether it’s a wake or sitting shivah, at some point someone is bound to say, “Try to eat a little something.” The Aleford casserole brigade springs into action after the Fairchilds are burglarized. We have all done the same thing, bearing lasagna pans, soup tureens, loaves of bread to the bereaved and distressed in body or mind. Offering food allows us to express our concern, our sorrow. We come bearing comfort food: food that goes down easily—whatever that tradition may be. One person’s chicken soup is another’s spicy jambalaya.

Then we have celebratory food—wedding food. Memorable feasts. I’ve written about both kinds in this particular book and thoughts of all the funeral baked meats, as well as festive nuptials, kept me company. The mere mention of these foods is a mnemonic. I thought about the French country wedding we attended that started with rich brioche and champagne immediately following the ceremony, ending almost twenty-four hours and many courses later with onion soup gratinée. There was the wedding reception at the Boston Athenaeum where the bride’s mother and grandmother had made a fabulous many-tiered cake—decorated with words and edible objects that had special significance for the bride and groom. Our own wedding was at the home of the friends to whom this book is dedicated—deep in the woods, a miraculous December day filled with so much sunshine, guests sat outdoors to eat. A nor’easter dumped a foot of snow on the ground a week later. The food was delicious, I’m told. Too nervous and excited to eat, both my husband and I were so ravenous late that night, we scoured the Connecticut countryside for an open sub shop on the way to our honeymoon inn. And what a sandwich it was—roasted peppers, steak, cheese. There was a fire in the room’s fireplace and we ate, sipping champagne—a decidedly non–Faith Fairchild menu, but one we’ll remember forever.

The sad times—those soups and casseroles, but also the platters of little sandwiches, the anchovy paste on cardboard. People, preoccupied with the business of grief, eat a triangle or two, then drift back together, gather about those stricken. I sometimes think those aluminum trays of sandwiches float from one living room, funeral home, or church hall to another across the country, the crustless bread always white and slightly stale.

Another tray holds slices of cake; there’s always a coffee urn. We don’t really remember the food, but we know it was there. Remember the urgings:

“You have to keep your strength up. Try some soup. Mrs.—fill in any name—made it.” Good times and bad times. We reach for and provide sustenance—the abundance of food, the offerings of our hearts common to both.

EXCERPTS FROM

HAVE FAITH

IN YOUR KITCHEN

BY Faith Sibley Fairchild

A WORK IN PROGRESS

AVOCADO BISQUE

1 ripe avocado

1⁄2 teaspoon curry powder

2 cups chicken broth

1⁄2 teaspoon salt

1⁄2 cup heavy cream

freshly ground pepper

1⁄2 cup light cream

2 tablespoons white rum

(preferably Mount Gay)

Peel the avocado and remove the pit. Cut the pulp in several pieces and place in a blender container with the chicken broth (cold), creams, rum, curry powder, salt, and a pinch of pepper. Blend until smooth. May be made ahead and kept refrigerated. Serves four. This recipe may be doubled.

The soup is a lovely color and Faith serves it in well-chilled bouillon cups with a spiderweb garnish of slightly thinned sour cream, or thinned crème fraîche. Use a pastry tube to pipe two or three concentric circles on top of the soup, then take a sharp knife and pull it through the circles, first toward the center, then the next away from the center. A bright nasturtium in the middle adds a nice, elegant Martha Stewartish touch. Nasturtiums are edible. Avoid foxglove and the like.

CHICKEN LIVER AND

MUSHROOM PÂTÉ

1⁄2 pound chicken livers

1 tablespoon port

1⁄2 cup unsalted butter

1⁄8 teaspoon ground

1 medium yellow onion,

nutmeg

chopped salt

1 clove garlic, minced

freshly ground pepper

4 ounces mushrooms,

clarified butter (optional)

chopped

After cutting any gristle from the livers, heat six tablespoons of the butter in a pan large enough for all the livers and cook them quickly, approximately three minutes on a side. Remove the livers with a slotted spoon and place in the bowl of a food processor or in a blender container.

Add the onion and garlic to the pan and cook until soft. Add the mushrooms and cook the mixture for five minutes, stirring occasionally. Add to the livers.

Melt the rest of the butter in the pan and stir in the port. Add to the liver mixture. Process until smooth.

Add the nutmeg, then salt and pepper to taste. Transfer the pâté into a small crock. Cover it with a thin layer of clarified butter if you wish to keep it for more than two days. Refrigerate when cool. Makes about 11⁄ 4 cups.

This recipe doubles well and should be made a day ahead. It is a wonderfully rich, versatile pâté and works as well on thin toast for a dinner party as slathered on baguettes for a picnic.

POLENTA WITH GORGONZOLA

3 cups cold water

1 tablespoon unsalted

1 cup yellow cornmeal

butter

(called polenta in Italian pinch of salt specialty stores)

pinch of freshly ground

1⁄4 pound Gorgonzola

pepper

cheese

Bring the water to a boil in a heavy saucepan or Le Creuset–type casserole. Add the cornmeal, preferably stone-ground, in a steady stream, stirring constantly.

Keep stirring for approximately five minutes as the polenta thickens. Faith uses a wooden spoon. Add the cheese and butter, stirring until they are melted, about one more minute, then add the salt and pepper.

Serve immediately or keep warm in the top of a double boiler, stirring occasionally. Serves six as a side dish.

Polenta is great. It can accompany a main dish fresh from the pot. It can also be spread out in a pie plate or eight-inch-square Pyrex pan to cool, then cut into wedges or squares. These can be served with sauce or they may be fried in olive oil. Both are also delicious covered with roasted vegetables.

Many brands of instant polenta are excellent. Follow the directions on the box and, again, add the butter and cheese at the last minute. Be sure the Gorgonzola is ripe, but not overripe. If too ripe, it will give the polenta a slightly acidic taste.

MINI ZUCCHINI FRITTERS

1 jumbo egg

pinch freshly ground

11⁄4 cups milk

pepper

1 tablespoon unsalted

11⁄2 cups finely grated

butter, melted

zucchini

1 cup flour, sifted

1 shallot, minced

1⁄4 teaspoon salt

2 teaspoons unsalted

butter

Beat the egg, milk, and melted butter together and add to the flour, salt, and pepper. Mix until smooth but do not overbeat.

Put the zucchini in a piece of cheesecloth or a clean dish towel and squeeze the excess liquid out. Sauté with the shallot in the two teaspoons of butter until soft, about three to five minutes.

Add the zucchini mixture to the batter and drop the batter onto a well-greased, hot griddle in rounds, approximately two and a half inches in diameter. Turn when golden brown. Makes thirty-six fritters.

Straight from the griddle, these are a nice accompaniment to a main course, fanned on the plate with grilled meat or fish. For Faith’s wedding hors d’oeuvres, spread the room-temperature fritters with salsa topped with a dollop of sour cream, or smoked salmon, sour cream, and a twist of coriander or dill.

The combinations are limitless, though, and these fritters may be made ahead and frozen.

OATMEAL CHOCOLATE GOODIES

1⁄

1

2 cup milk

⁄2 cup unsalted butter

1⁄2 cup sugar

1 teaspoon vanilla

2 tablespoons cocoa

1⁄2 cup peanut butter

powder

3 cups oatmeal

Bring the milk to a boil and add the sugar, cocoa, and butter. Stir until the butter melts. Turn the heat down and cook for one and a half minutes, stirring constantly. Remove from the heat and add the vanilla and peanut butter. Stir and add the oatmeal. Mix well.

Drop teaspoons of the mixture onto a cookie sheet covered with wax paper. Refrigerate until firm. Makes four dozen cookies. Store in a tin, the layers separated by waxed paper, in the refrigerator or in a cool place.

Small children, and other free spirits, enjoy mixing the oatmeal and dropping the mixture onto the wax paper with their hands.

LIZZIE’S SOUR CREAM BROWNIES

1⁄2 cup unsalted butter

1 teaspoon vanilla

1 ounce (1 square)

1⁄2 cup flour, sifted

unsweetened chocolate pinch salt 1 ounce (1 square)

1⁄4 cup sour cream

semisweet chocolate

2⁄3 cup chopped walnuts

2 eggs

(optional)

1 cup sugar

Preheat the oven to 350°F. Grease and lightly flour an eight-inch-square pan. Melt the butter and chocolate in the top of a double boiler. Cool to room temperature.

Beat the eggs and sugar together until they form a lemony ribbon. Add the vanilla. Fold the chocolate and butter into the egg mixture. Then fold in the flour, salt, and sour cream. Add the nuts if using.

Bake for thirty minutes in the middle of the oven.

Do not overcook. Let cool for thirty minutes before cutting. Cooking at 325°F will give you very moist brownies, which Faith likes to do sometimes.

This is a very rich, dense brownie, similar in texture to flourless chocolate cake. It’s sinfully good with ice cream on top. Makes sixteen good-sized brownies. You can’t double the recipe; you have to do it in two batches.

Note on the Recipes:

As with all of Faith’s recipes, heartwise substitutions can be made—Egg Beaters, margarine, low-fat milk and low-fat sour cream, for example. Also, the rum and port may be eliminated or nonalcoholic rum and sherry flavorings used.

Acknowledgments

I would like to thank Elizabeth Samenfeld-Specht for her cookie and brownie recipes; Dr. Robert DeMartino for his medical advice; my agent, Faith Hamlin, for her years of support; and my editor, Zachary Schisgal, for his regard for language—and plot.

Our home was burglarized in 1995, cleaned out in much the same way as Faith’s. Friends and family provided loving gestures—none more than my husband, Alan, and son, Nicholas.

About the Author

KATHERINE HALL PAGE is the author of thirteen previous Faith Fairchild mysteries. Her first book in the series, The Body in the Belfry, received the Agatha Award for best first mystery novel. She also won an Agatha Award for her short story “The Would Be Widower,” and The Body in the Lighthouse was nominated for a Mary Higgins Clark Award. She lives with her husband and son in Massachusetts. You can visit her website at www.katherinehallpage.com.

Praise for Agatha Award-winner KATHERINE HALL PAGE

and

THE BODY IN THE BOOKCASE

“A best bet.”

Portland Oregonian

“Peopled with entertaining and resourceful characters and sprinkled with mouthwatering recipes.” Dallas Morning News

“Page’s take is tightly written, with strong characterizations and delightful descriptions of its New England setting. The author braids her various storylines neatly and briskly, right up to the enticing conclusion.” Publishers Weekly

“Page’s literary concoction is satisfying and surprisingly delicious . . .

The plot is clever and the characters ring true.” Los Angeles Times

“An expert at the puzzle mystery.”

Fort Lauderdale Sun-Sentinel

“Katherine Hall Page has found a great recipe for delicious mysteries: take charming characters, mix with ingenious plots, season with humor.

Bon appetit!”

Nancy Pickard

Other Faith Fairchild Mysteries by

Katherine Hall Page

from Avon Books

THE BODY IN THE BASEMENT

THE BODY IN THE BELFRY

THE BODY IN THE BIG APPLE

THE BODY IN THE BOG

THE BODY IN THE BOUILLON

THE BODY IN THE CAST

THE BODY IN THE FJORD

THE BODY IN THE KELP

THE BODY IN THE VESTIBULE

THE BODY IN THE MOONLIGHT

Available in Hardcover

THE BODY IN THE BONFIRE